The Great Escape

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  Through the window, she could see the warm, honeyed tones of the hardwood floor. From the moment she’d stepped through the doorway, the house had called out to her. Panda didn’t deserve this place.

  BREE UNDRESSED IN THE TINY laundry room at the back of the cottage and dropped her dirty clothes directly into the washing machine, right down to bra and underpants. The smoker she used to calm the bees had left her smelling like she’d spent the day around a campfire. She wrapped a towel around herself and made her way to the bathroom shower. She’d never worked so hard in her life, and every muscle in her body ached.

  For the last few days, she’d been outside from dawn until nightfall getting the hives ready for summer. Following the directions in the manuals she’d read, she moved frames, checked for queens, replaced the old brood comb with fresh comb, and added more brood boxes. She’d also cleaned the honey house from top to bottom, wiping the dust from hundreds of jars filled with last summer’s harvest. When that was done, she’d attached Myra’s labels.

  Carousel Honey

  Charity Island, Michigan

  Bree had once dreamed of being an artist, and the illustration of the gaily beribboned carousel on the labels came from a watercolor she’d painted when she was sixteen as a birthday gift to Myra. Myra had liked the watercolor so much she’d asked to use it for her labels.

  Bree dried herself off, working gently around the numerous bee stings she’d accumulated, the oldest of which were itching like crazy. But she hadn’t gotten stung once today. It was nice to feel proud of something.

  She found Toby sprawled on the living room couch playing with the Nintendo portable game player she’d brought as a gift when she’d arrived. The room had changed little over the years. Peach walls, a blue and navy floral carpet, overstuffed furniture, and a pair of ceramic Siamese cats on each side of the fireplace mantel. She and Star had named them Beavis and Butt-Head.

  It was almost eleven. Toby should be in bed, but if she mentioned it, he’d pretend not to hear. She picked up a dirty cereal bowl. “I’m going to open the farm stand tomorrow.” It sounded more like a question than a statement.

  “Nobody’ll stop,” he said, without looking up from his game.

  “It’s on the main road to the south beach, so there’s plenty of traffic. If we fix it up a little, I think people will notice.” She had no idea whether they would or not. “I’ll need some help, so you’d better get to bed.”

  He didn’t move.

  She had to be firmer, but she didn’t know how, so she escaped to the kitchen. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but even though she wasn’t hungry, she made herself open the refrigerator. The shelves held only milk and lunch meat. She shut the door, glanced toward the pantry with its supply of canned goods, cereal, pasta, and beans. Nothing tempted her. Nothing except …

  The single jar of honey she’d brought inside sat on the counter. Golden amber in the sunlight, it looked dark as maple syrup in the kitchen’s artificial light. She picked up the bottle and studied the fanciful carousel label. Finally she twisted the lid. It opened with the lightest pop.

  She touched the honey with the tip of her index finger. Shut her eyes. Brought her finger to her lips.

  All the summers of her childhood came flooding back. She tasted the faintest hint of cherry blossom; a dash of dandelion, clover, and strawberry; a whisper of honeysuckle and touch of sourwood, all the flavors clean and fresh as a June morning. She dipped her finger again and tasted the days of summer growing longer as the bees gravitated toward lavender patches and blackberry brambles, bringing a complexity to the flavor notes. Then August arrived with summer nearing its end. The honey became rich and buttery from thistle, sage, and alfalfa.

  Her weariness faded, and for a moment she felt as if all life’s secrets clung to the tip of her finger.

  THE NEXT MORNING, SHE COULDN’T get Toby out of bed, so she set to work alone. Her arms ached as she piled the old wheelbarrow with the brushes, rollers, rags, and paint cans she’d found in the storage shed. She maneuvered it awkwardly down the drive. The farm stand sat gray and weathered in the shade of a hundred-year-old oak. A sloping roof and rudimentary floor supported its three walls, and a pair of splintered shelves ran beneath a long wooden counter. With the exception of a small storage shed attached to the back, the whole thing could have fit inside her old kitchen pantry.

  A blue Honda minivan whizzed by, followed by another just like it, both bearing families heading for the still-chilly waters of the south beach, the island’s best swimming locale. She made two more trips back to the house for tools, the temporary poster-board sign she’d painted, and a dozen jars of last summer’s honey. This year’s crop wouldn’t be ready for harvest until August. She hoped she’d be long gone by then, although she couldn’t imagine where. She stomped to wake Toby up and discovered a deserted bedroom.

  Her spirits lifted when the first car stopped just as she was sticking her poster board sign in the ground. “It’s about time you opened up,” the woman said. “We finished our last jar of Myra’s honey a couple of weeks ago, and my arthritis is starting to flare up again.”

  They bought two jars. Bree was giddy from her success, but her euphoria gradually faded when no one else stopped.

  She filled the time sweeping away cobwebs and old bird nests and nailing loose boards back into place. Finally she was ready to open the first of two cans of exterior paint she’d found in the shed, a buttery yellow shade she suspected Myra had chosen for just this purpose. She’d never actually painted anything herself, but she’d watched painters work, and how hard could it be?

  Harder than it looked, she discovered after several hours. She had a crick in her neck, a splinter in her hand, and a nasty gash in her leg. As she swiped her forehead with her arm, smearing herself with even more paint, she heard a car slow. She turned to see a late-model red Cadillac come to a stop. Her excitement at finally having a customer faded when she saw who it was.

  “You putting any paint on the wood or is it all ending up on you?”

  Mike’s obnoxious hardy-har-har laugh felt like fingernails on a chalkboard, and she snapped at him as he came toward her. “I’m doing fine.”

  Instead of leaving, he inspected what she’d done. “Looks like you’re going to need more paint. The wood’s really soaking it up.”

  Something she’d already noticed, but she didn’t have money to waste on more paint, and she hadn’t figured out what to do about it. He nudged one of the almost empty paint cans with the toe of an expensive cordovan loafer, then stepped away to examine the sagging shelf. “Why isn’t Toby helping you?”

  “You’d have to ask him.” She dropped the paint roller into the tray, splattering even more yellow paint on her only decent pair of sandals.

  “I just might. Where is he?”

  If her resentment hadn’t gotten the best of her, she wouldn’t have answered. “Next door with his new best friend.”

  “He should be helping you.” He chose a bottle of honey from the carton on the ground, tossed in a bill, and returned to his car with it.

  As he drove off, she realized she was shaking. Just the sight of him flooded her with painful memories. Nothing in her life had ever really gone completely right since the night he’d spied on her with David.

  Even though she left the rear of the farm stand untouched, she still ran out of paint. As she worked her brush around the bottom of the can, the Cadillac reappeared with a sullen Toby sitting next to Mike in the front seat. Mike rolled down the car’s window as Toby got out. “He forgot he was supposed to help you today.”

  Toby’s angry door slam indicated he hadn’t forgotten anything.

  Mike got out and walked around to the trunk. “Come on, boy. Grab these for me.”

  Even though Toby was only twelve, she didn’t like hearing him addressed that way. David had gotten fired from one of the charter boats when he’d confronted a customer who’d called him “boy.” But Toby obeyed Mike without protest. Was
Toby afraid of him? She eyed the two cans of fresh paint Toby pulled from the car trunk. “What’s this?”

  “You were running out.” Mike pulled a paint bucket, some brushes, and another paint roller from the trunk. “I got you some more. No big deal.”

  Her muscles clenched. “I don’t want you buying me paint. I don’t want you buying me anything.”

  He shrugged and turned to Toby. “Let’s get that opened up.”

  “No,” she said. “The paint’s going back, along with everything else.”

  Toby shot her a disgusted glare, grabbed the screwdriver she’d left in the dirt, and shoved it under the lip of the can.

  “Toby, I mean it. Don’t open that—”

  The lid popped.

  She’d never been able to make anybody do what she wanted. She couldn’t make Toby obey her or force Mike to leave her alone, and she hadn’t been able to turn Scott into a faithful husband.

  Mike poured some paint into the roller pan. “Toby, grab that brush and start putting a second coat on the trim.”

  Toby didn’t offer a single protest. He wouldn’t do the simplest thing for her, but when it came to taking orders from a racist ass, he turned into a model of cooperation.

  “I’d help you myself,” Mike said, “but …” He made an expansive gesture toward his immaculate gray summer slacks. “Oh, heck.” He grabbed the roller, loaded it up with the buttery paint, and started to work.

  She hated what was happening, but she didn’t know how to stop it. Mike Moody, nosing in where he wasn’t wanted, just like always.

  “It’s a nice color,” he said.

  She liked it, too, but she wasn’t exchanging polite chitchat with him. “Don’t work next to me,” she said. “Your cologne reeks.”

  She’d finally managed to ruffle his phony geniality. “What are you talking about? Do you know how much this stuff costs?”

  “You can’t buy good taste, Mike. Just like you can’t buy manners.”

  Toby threw down his paintbrush, his face contorting with anger. “Why can’t you be nice to him?”

  Mike didn’t miss a beat. “I sure would like something to drink. How about it, Bree? You got some lemonade or something in the house? A cool drink would simmer everybody down.”

  Only Toby and Bree were simmering. Mike’s phony affability remained unruffled. And then he stopped painting. Not because she wanted him to stop but because he’d spotted an approaching pickup truck. A truck he apparently recognized, since he hurried to the road to flag it down.

  A big salesman’s grin stretched his face as the truck stopped. “Jason, my man,” he said to the long-haired kid behind the wheel. “Have you met Bree Remington?”

  She was Bree West. She hadn’t been Bree Remington in ten years.

  The kid gave her a nod. Mike rested his hand on the roof of the truck. “Bree’s selling Myra’s honey now. I bet your mom would appreciate it if you brought her a couple of jars. Everybody knows Myra’s honey’s good for migraines.”

  “Sure thing, Mike.”

  And that was the way the rest of her afternoon went, with Mike alternating between rolling paint and flagging down customers. She stayed as far away from him as she could. Experience had taught her that whatever good deeds Mike Moody performed came with all kinds of strings attached.

  By the time the day was over, the farm stand glowed under two coats of buttery yellow paint, and she’d sold eighteen jars of honey, but as Mike headed back to his car, she couldn’t find a “thank you” anywhere inside her.

  LUCY FOUND HERSELF WATCHING FOR Toby as she pulled up some weeds along the porch. She hadn’t seen him in three days, not since Big Mike had taken him away. She decided to drop in at the cottage and check on him. Although she’d been out on her bike every day, she hadn’t ridden into town in nearly a week, and she needed some groceries. When she returned, she’d get to work. Really, this time. Instead of just thinking about writing, she’d sit down and actually do it.

  Instead of following the back road, she took the highway, and as she rounded the bend, she saw the farm stand, no longer a dingy gray but a soft yellow. Jars of golden honey sat on the counter, and Bree was painting a fanciful carousel horse on one side of a teepee-shaped wooden sign hinged at the top. As Lucy got closer, she read the royal blue script:

  Carousel Honey

  Best on the island

  Our honey makes your world go round

  Toby sat on the counter, watching Bree, his legs dangling, a sour expression on his face. As Lucy got off her bike, Bree put down her brush. She had a splash of bright pink paint on one cheek, a dab of lime green on the other. Her sleeveless top revealed an angry red bump on her pale, freckled arm.

  Toby hopped off the counter and raced over to her. “Hey, Viper. You got work for me to do?”

  “Not today.” She studied the sign. “You’re a real artist, Bree. It looks great.”

  “Thanks, but I’m just a dabbler.” She began maneuvering the heavy sign toward the road, being careful not to smudge the fresh paint.

  Lucy hurried to help her. “You must have been working hard. Everything looks great.”

  “I can be there early tomorrow,” Toby said.

  Bree adjusted the sign. “You have to watch the stand in the morning while I check the hives.”

  “I don’t want to watch the stand!” Toby cried.

  Lucy took the pressure off Bree. “I have some other things to do tomorrow anyway.”

  Bree stepped back from the sign. It was painted the same on the other side but had a slightly different message:

  Carousel Honey

  Memories of summer all year long

  “We’ve only had ten customers all day,” Toby protested.

  “It’s not even noon.” Bree gazed down the highway. “Ten customers is more than we had this time yesterday. The sign is going to help.”

  She didn’t sound convinced, and Toby wasn’t buying it. “You need to get a real job,” he said.

  Lucy waited for Bree to tell Toby to knock it off, but Bree acted as if she hadn’t heard, and Lucy had to bite her tongue to keep from telling him herself. Instead, she said, “I’m definitely buying some on my way back from town.”

  That embarrassed Bree. “You don’t have to.”

  “Are you kidding? I love honey.”

  “It’d be really good on your bread,” Toby said. And then, accusingly to Bree, “Viper makes bread all by herself. It’s really good, too. The best you ever tasted.”

  “You bake your own bread?” Bree said.

  “Sometimes. I’ll bring you a loaf.”

  “That’d be— Thanks.” She reached in her pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and lit up. Toby regarded her with disgust. She gave Lucy an apologetic grimace. “I didn’t mean to start again. It just happened.”

  Lucy wasn’t entitled to pass judgment on what people did when they were stressed. A dark green sedan whizzed by. “See,” Toby said. “Your sign is stupid. Nobody’s going to buy anything.”

  Lucy couldn’t stand it. “Stop giving Bree such a hard time.”

  Lucy had sided with the enemy. With a scowl, Toby stalked up the drive toward the house.

  Bree took a deep drag on her cigarette. It looked odd seeing someone who resembled a Victorian painting puffing away. Bree gazed at Toby’s retreating figure. “I don’t know anything about kids. As I’m sure you can see, we’re sort of a mess right now.”

  “He’s scared,” Lucy said.

  “I can’t imagine what was in Myra’s head making me his guardian.”

  “I’m sure she thought a lot of you.”

  “We were close when I was a kid, but after Star ran off—she was Toby’s mother—we only talked on the phone every few months. Star and I … We were best friends.” She flushed, as if she were embarrassed to have revealed this small bit about herself.

  An ancient Crown Victoria slowed and pulled over next to Bree’s new sign. Lucy left her to tend to her customer and biked on into town
.

  By the time she’d bought her groceries and two small pots of herbs for the baker’s rack on the porch, her pack was too heavy to add more, so she stopped on her way back and told Bree she’d come over the next day to pick up her honey.

  “Really. You don’t have to.” Bree smiled, the first Lucy had seen. “The sign’s working. Three more cars have stopped. I’ve sold six jars. And your honey is on the house.”

  Lucy wanted to argue, but she understood this was Bree’s way of thanking her for helping with Toby. Another customer slowed. Lucy waved at Bree and took off.

  By the time she’d reached Goose Cove Lane, she’d made a mental note to bake bread first thing tomorrow so she could take some with her. She turned into the drive and laid on the brakes. A car was parked by the house.

  A dark gray SUV with Illinois plates.

  Chapter Eleven

  LUCY WAS FURIOUS. SHE SLAMMED the door behind her, dropped her backpack, and stomped down the front hallway, passing the empty wall space where the baker’s rack should never have been in the first place.

  Panda was in the sunroom, his back to the windows, his eyes on her. She hardly recognized him. His wild mane had been cut and tamed into something respectable, although she suspected that wouldn’t last for long. He was clean-shaven, or as clean-shaven as he’d ever get, and he wore a neatly pressed gray dress shirt with equally neat dark gray pants, both a far cry from the cheap suit he’d worn to her wedding. It was disconcerting seeing him dressed like a reputable businessman, but she wasn’t fooled. Beneath all that good grooming was a renegade biker who’d taken advantage of her, then called her a bad lover.

  His gaze went to the fire-breathing dragon crawling up her neck, then to her fake pierced eyebrow, and two things were immediately clear. He was no happier to see her than she was to see him. And he wasn’t alone.

  A woman stood next to him, her back to Lucy, her attention fixed on the view of the cove through the sparkling windows. Lucy gave Panda her iciest glare. “Patrick.”